Sketches of Sparrow
by SpockLikesCats
Summary: An orange tomcat brings people together at Starfleet Academy. Captain Sparrow was brought into being by HopefulAddict.
1. Chapter 1

**Sketches of Sparrow 1:** _They Also Serve._

_by __**SpockLikesCats**_

_Suggested by Tales of Captain Sparrow: UVA by Linstock_

_**Tales of Captain Sparrow started by HopefulAddict**_

An orange tomcat, master of all he surveys at Starfleet Academy, makes a positive contribution to the lives of cadets – and not a few civilians onboard. _[A tribute to those valuable civilian experts who serve the military services in so many ways, and to stalwart defenders of good engineering, as my Dad was during WWII.]_

_Dedicated – To All the Cats I've Loved Before – and to all cat-lovers._

_**Thanks to Linstock**__ for careful reading, suggestions and comments!_

_**Characters:**__ Captain Sparrow, Commander Christopher Pike, son Sam, and featuring OCs and felines._

_**Disclaimer:**__ Written purely for the joy of exploring the world and personalities of Star Trek. I receive no profit – except reviews by readers. Everything here is original except ST and ST characters._

~/\~

Mike Raymond was exhausted. _I don't know how Fleeters do it, zipping around the galaxy for months and years. I've only been out for three weeks and I'm beat. _Maybe it was the fact that he couldn't use the supplements routinely administered to officers who spent most of their time travelling the stars in the warped space necessary to FTL speed. Mike could take them but he had certain "deleterious reactions," according to the Fleet physicians. _They could just call them "migraine headaches."_ At any rate it was hard to concentrate on the matters at hand with a headache that couldn't be relieved with medication. The only people who didn't need supplements were Vulcans. Their bodies easily adapted to many conditions, something Mike envied.

_Kinda cool bunch, but damned good engineers._

He had a great deal of respect for Vulcans and had learned that not only were their engineering skills supreme, their usual sense of tolerance and generosity was greatly welcome in the stressful time of space trials. And they didn't shout like he did, except in times when volume was absolutely required.

_We build these beautiful ships, and we're pretty damned sure we have everything right, and then we take 'em out on space trials and find defects, sure enough. _He shrugged, coding open the old wooden door of his little house just off the Academy grounds. _That's what trials are for._ He smiled as the door swung wide, hoping the kids were home. They always revived his spirits.

"Poppa! Hi! How's Commander Pike? Mom's not home yet. Are you doing okay? Can I make you some coffee?" His eleven-year-old daughter Aubrey ran to hug him.

"It is so good to see you, _bambina_," he said, rubbing her sturdy back, enjoying the warmth of her slender-muscled arms around his waist, the press of her springy hair under his chin. Aubrey was short like her dad, but unlike him, slender, small-framed, and solid muscle – she had started studying martial arts as a little girl. Her mom, after all, was an expert. Michelangelo, "Mike" or "Raymie" to his military pals, was short and a stocky guy, not like those lean, tall Starfleet types. He had awkward proportions, like his Italian family's peasant ancestors – long torso, short legs. Sturdy. All the Fleeters, though strong and sturdy, seemed tall and lean, except the Redshirts – some of them tended to be stocky like he was, but they were usually blessed with a full head of hair much longer legs. Which meant most of them couldn't travel the Jeffries Tubes like he could, so there.

"So how did the electronic navigation systems test out?"

"I'll tell you all about it after we take a break out back. How're the roses doing?"

"Look," she answered, flourishing her hand as they entered the kitchen. A cut-glass pitcher full of freshly cut yellow roses sat in the center of the big table there.

"Ohhh, that is one gorgeous welcome!" He leaned in and appreciatively inhaled the rich scent.

"Kevin's been tending the bushes every day, just like you asked. He brought these in after school today."

"Where _is_ Kevin?"

"Uhh … I'm not sure."

Mike Raymond knew damned well that when one of his children began a sentence with "uhh", there were likely to be some shaded truths in his immediate future. He leveled a skeptical look in his daughter's direction, and she saw it. Her light-caramel skin got the prettiest blush. _Yep, something's up all right_. "So, want some coffee, Pops? You never told me how Commander Pike is doing."

He kept his level (but indulgent) gaze on Aubrey as he answered, "No coffee, thanks. Maybe some lemonade. And Commander Pike is just fine, _still_ can't sing opera as well as I can, and before we parted ways today, he asked me to tell you … _and_ Kevin … hello."

"What is it he says about his singing, Pop?"

"He makes up for his poor talent with his good looks."

"He's so funny! By the way Mom says he has an open invitation to dinner, he and Sam and Christy. I hope they come over, or … maybe we could … could we go visit them this afternoon? Sam – " She buried her head in the stasis unit as she ordered a glass of ice and fetched out lemonade and poured the cool pale-yellow treat. "Here ya go, Daddy-o."

He gratefully accepted and took a long draft. Looked at her, raised an eyebrow, and said, "What about Sam?"

"He, uh, invited us over and there're …" She emitted a sigh and 'fessed up. "There're kittens, and two really cute ones I really love. Can we please, please adopt them?"

"Let's go out in the back yard and talk about it, _cara_."

The yard was bright with afternoon, and Mike flopped into a lounger and settled back, enjoying the kiss of the sun on his skin, and how it lit up his daughter's curly reddish-brown hair. Birds sang in the trees and hopped in the grass and the air smelled wonderful – a little salt from San Fran Bay, roses in the yard … _God, I missed this. Warped space screws the hell outta my circadian rhythms, even with artificial day and night on board the ships. I'll sleep well tonight._

"So can we get the kittens? The black and white one and the auburn one are really friendly. They purr so loud!"

"An auburn one?" He reached a hand across to where his daughter sat cross-legged on the grass and flipped one of her kinky reddish-brown strands of hair through his fingers. He never failed to marvel at the structures of nature, and curly hair was one.

"Well, buff and cream too, Pop, but auburn along the top of his back and a pattern on his sides. And in his stripes. And on his tail."

"And how is it that there are _kittens_? Didn't the Pikes get their young lady cat fixed?"

"They were just _about_ to."

_Just like ships. Man plans, God laughs._

"Well, how about we wait till Mom gets home, and we'll go and visit. You and Kevin and your dear mother, and your _babbino caro_ here, will make a _contract_ for care of the cats … don't give me that look. Your mom is a full-time Academy instructor so she can't take all the responsibility and let you skate off enjoying the cats when you want and ignoring them other times. And I know how you get when I'm off on trials."

She made a face. "C'mon, Pops, I quit fooling like that a _year_ ago. And Kevin would _never_ ignore an animal and its needs."

"Mmmm-hmm. So you will make the contract with Mom, _Kevin_ and me." He took a judicious sip of lemonade. "Where is he, again?"

"He's over Sam's house!"

Mike held up his hand parallel to the floor. "How high over?"

~/\~

"This is Mrs Sparrow, the mom cat," said Mike's son Kevin. "Isn't she a beauty?"

And she was, a lovely black and white long-haired cat, patiently lying on her side while various kittens nursed and climbed over her. Her big golden eyes surveyed Mike's wife as she leaned over the brood. "Mrs Sparrow, you've done a lovely job. Oh they are so _cute_, Kevin!" Sylvia Wise-Raymond said, scooping up the "auburn" kitten. She turned to Mike, who grinning, shrugged. "What do you think?"

"I think you're speaking about an octave higher than usual." Sylvia made a face and Mike winked. "But you and Kevin and Aubrey _are_ very perceptive judges of kittens."

Kevin, at sixteen a master of gardens and animals, said, "Look at this one, too, Pops."

Mike held out a hand and Kevin put a little black and white kitten in his palm. Mike had big hands, and one was sufficient for the little fluffy girl. Actually, she wasn't fluffy, more like … kinda raggedy. Short fur with long hairs sticking out here and there. Mike cocked an eyebrow at Kevin.

"Her fur'll fill out, see, look, her ears have tufts…" – they were very _big_ ears; Mike thought they might actually pick up subspace signals – "and here, where some of the hairs are longer? She's gonna have a ruff, and her tail is going to be plumey, and see the longer hairs all over, and on her back legs? The 'britches'? They'll fill in long and she'll be gorgeous like her mom, wait and see. And she is a sweetheart. Look how calm she is."

"I have this effect on all creatures, my son."

Chris Pike came into the room, eyes crinkling with his soft laughter upon hearing Mike's claim. The den's walls were covered with awards and plaques Pike had earned while serving on various ships and dirtside commands.

"Kevin, is your dad trying to tell you another sea story? Because he does _not_ have a calming effect on Starfleet construction contract managers, let me tell you."

Kevin snorted.

Pike glanced around. " … Where's Sam?"

"He's out back copying a program for our replicator so we can make the perfect kitten food."

While Kevin was Mr. Animal-Vegetable, Sam was Mr. Mineral, normally ensconced in the shed out back – where he could be free of the sound of Aubrey and Christy's giggling girl talk– designing programs. He was all about computers; hardware, programming, designing, you name it. His ardent wish was to join Starfleet and follow in his dad's footsteps, though into Engineering vice Command. Or to learn piloting and follow in his mom's, wherever the heck she was. Adrianna Walesa-Pike, former Starfleet lieutenant, was now simply Adrianna Walesa, cruising the stars as a merchant pilot, where speed was all. And missions from planet to planet could take years and years, as her ship "hopped" from pick-up point to delivery point and on to another pickup; she preferred to be unencumbered" by family ….

"Hiya Chris," Mike said to their host, gently scratching the kitten's sturdy little skull – her eyes closed in perfect ecstacy – "I tell no tales … See? _See_ this effect I have? And yet, Chris, I see _all_ these plaques." He gestured around. "Not _one_ of them is for singing. Not … one."

"Yeah, yeah. Can't keep up with you in the Jeffries tubes, either." Pike reached to pet the kitten in Sylvia's hands and said, "God, it's good to be back home. You guys come for dinner tomorrow, 1800 hours, okay?"

"You bet, Chris, it'll be a pleasure," said Sylvia in her husky alto voice, which rose considerably higher as she re-commenced speaking nonsense syllables to the orange kitten.

Pike softly clapped Mike on the shoulder and said, "Got a comm from Procurement, must've been while you were walking over. They're approving 18.3M credits for the changes you recommended in impulse drive systems."

"That's about a million more than the initial authorization. Wow."

"Ehh … A million here, a million there … that's nothing to the Federation bureaucrats." Pike grinned at Raymie. "Actually I think they approved it because they have faith in you."

"Huh. Imagine that. Wish they'd just let me design them from the ground up."

"Well, if they ever get a start on the flagship, you know whose expertise I'll be calling on."

"We should be so lucky! Keep your nose clean, Chris, ya never know, huh?"

A loud slam of the back door announced Sam's presence, and he came slouching in, handing a data chip to Kevin. "Got the whole life program of feline supplement for you. Let me know if you need any changes."

"Yeah, you know I'll want the optimum for these little ones," Kevin said, grinning.

By way of greeting, Sylvia grinned at Sam and gently cuffed his shoulder. "Stand _up_, young man, I've never seen a fleeter who slouched, have you?" Sam rolled his eyes and straightened his posture. He now loomed above everyone.

An orange cat wandered in, a male a couple of years old, by the look of him, muscular, long and large. "Ahhh, Captain Sparrow," Chris said. "Meet the Raymonds."

"Yaao-ou-u," said the Captain, in a none-too-attractive voice.

"My _God_, Chris, is this the father?" blurted Sylvia. "He's enormous!"

"Yeah. Seven and a half kilos if he's a gram.1 Incorrigible fellow."

"Have you, maybe, thought of fixing him?" Sylvia looked at Sparrow, who narrowed a judging look at her. Apparently she was found wanting; the cat went to twine around Kevin's ankles.

"Well, as I understand it, Mrs. Captain is now scheduled for her hormone control injection, and we have yet to hold onto the Captain long enough to give him a shot. Maybe Sam can rig some sort of hypodermic rifle."

"Hypodermic _air_ tube," corrected Kevin.

~/\~

The kids were so excited to bring the kittens home, they had stayed up too late, and were now dead asleep in their beds. Mike and Sylvia had looked in on them: Kevin lay on his side; the black and white kitten curled in by his chest. In Aubrey's room, their daughter was, as always, on her back, covers thrown off, pajamas awry, snoring with her mouth open. The auburn kitten was lying on her stomach, little front paws "milk treading" in deep relaxation and contentment, eyes beginning to drift shut. Sylvia laughed softly as she and Mike went to their room. "Kevin was so excited – he's been acting so _grown_ lately, it was fun to see him act like a kid."

"Yeah – he loved walking around with her riding on his neck – didja see that big grin of his? And Aubrey's beside herself, huh? I'd forgotten how much fun it can be to have kittens in the house."

Sylvia and Mike's first cat, Mao Tse, had decided he was terribly neglected after baby Kevin had arrived home, and had yowled almost constantly in his loud Siamese way, "WaAUGHH! WAO! WAAO! WAUGHHHHHHHAOW!" waking the baby and generally disturbing the peace. Mao had been with Mike and Sylvia since he'd been a kitten and was very upset by Kevin's presence in "his" home. Not to mention all the attention the baby needed and got. Eventually Mike had found a wonderful home for Mao with a Vulcan engineer of his acquaintance. Sokar and his family appreciated – and inexplicably _calmed_ – the excitable Mao.

"Yeah … we've all been pretty busy. Now Aubrey's old enough to be responsible." Sylvia moved into Mike's arms and he nuzzled her brown, smooth cheek, and kissed her temple.

"She'd better be. She signed the contract. And not that I think _he'll_ fall down on the job, but Kevin signed it too."

"And all I have to do is wave it under their noses if they neglect their duties," said Syl. "Meanwhile … I have a homecoming present for you!" She brandished a wrapped package and shook it.

"Well … it doesn't rattle," he said. "What could it be?" He accepted the gift and carefully unwrapped it. "Wow …" he said, running his fingers over the antique paper score for Mozart's opera "Don Giovanni." He paged through it happily, humming a little.

"You owe me a recital!" she teased, her black eyes dancing.

"Yeah, I'd love to sing the aria I've been practicing … I'll drive the kids crazy so they know I'm really home."

"Hmph! … they have no appreciation for the art of singing," Sylvia sighed. "They like that stupid electronic stuff."

"Isn't it a pity."

"Can't wait to hear you. I love your voice." She gently kissed his throat.

"And I love you." Mike squeezed her waist as they hugged. He motioned toward the bed and raised his eyebrows.

Laughing, she nodded.

Later, having shared wine and some private connubial bliss, Mike and Sylvia sat in their bed, holding hands, listening to Puccini and talking in low voices. After a while Syl yawned and Mike shut off the music. He snuggled down under the covers, and his wife wriggled down next to him. The afternoon had been warm, but evenings were chilly at this time of year.

"So, M'angelo, d'you think they're ever going to contract that Constitution-class flagship? My students asked again today."

"I heard when we came in from trials that they're starting work on the support structure in the Iowa shipyard. Why they don't build that big mother in space is beyond me."

"'Starship Enterprise'. Imagine that. I hope you get to be in on the inspection and approval process." She kissed him. "Better yet, in on the design process."

He sighed a little, smiling, imagining. "If Chris has his way, I will be, Sylvie."

"Yeah, sweetie. Ya' never know," Sylvia murmured. She patted his leg and settled in to sleep, rubbing her left ear on the pillow and making a tiny grunt of satisfaction. Eventually her breathing deepened.

Mike watched her sleep, internally hearing "Fin ch'han dal vino," the Don Giovanni aria he'd worked on in his free time during trials. It was speedy, and challenging, and he moved his foot, gently keeping the beat as he mentally ran through it.

Just as he drifted slowly into sleep, Mike heard a distinctive cat voice in the yard beyond.

"Yaao-ou-u," said the Captain.

=^..^=

1: Sixteen pounds if he's an ounce

**A/N: **Sea trials are a chance to "de-bug" and evaluate the performance of ships before they are fully manned and sent out on official military missions. "Space trials" is an update for Starfleet. This would be why the USS Enterprise was a star performer on her first official mission [although I think Raymie would have a thing or two to say about those glary lights in the Bridge workspaces, Mr JJ Abrams].

Let me know what you think!

(Don't worry, there won't be so many OCs in the next one.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Sketches of Sparrow 2:** "_Another Victim of the Automated Lawn Sprinkler System"_

_by __**SpockLikesCats**_

_Suggested by __Tales of Captain Sparrow: UVA__, by Linstock_

_**Captain Sparrow tales**__ initiated by __**HopefulAddict**_

_**Features:**__ Spock, Leila Kalomi, Captain Sparrow, Dr M'Benga_

_**Thanks to Linstock**__ for careful reading, suggestions and comments!_

_**Disclaimer:**__ No profit made from telling these tales and sketching these scenes. Just enjoying the characters and surroundings of Star Trek._

_**Notes:**__ A fourth/class (or 4/c) cadet = a freshman, a third/class (3/c) a sophomore, and so on. Leila's a year ahead of Spock at the Academy._

~/\~

"He's hurt! He's hurt! Is anyone here? Oh, please, help!"

Cadet Fourth/Class Spock looked up. Leila Kalomi, the lovely blonde Third/Class Xenobotany major, stood before him, blocking the warm sun, gesturing just beyond the meditation garden, where Spock sat on the grass. He had finished an hour of _suus-mahna_, stretched – and barefoot, still wearing his workout clothes – now sat in contemplation. But her frightened voice roused him from his meditative state.

His 4/c roommate, "Randy" Pandit – who had followed immediately after the louche and "loose" "Gonzo" Gonzalez, since reassigned to an Advanced Maths Course in Russia after several confrontations with Spock – was correct; Cadet Kalomi was most attractive. Pandit's intentions toward her, however, were far from correct.

Commander Pike, Spock's first-year advisor, was now looking for a more suitable roommate for Pandit. (The Cadet Barracks Assignment Officer had twice assigned Spock with womanizers in hopes that the Vulcan's inherent civility and maturity would temper these roommates' sexual … _assertiveness_ toward their female classmates; neither Spock nor Commander Pike understood this "logic" since both young men had thought Spock was simply prudish and his "social skills" lacking.)

Spock stood up directly from his cross-legged position. Cadet Kalomi seemed to be impressed with his coordination; such was usual for Vulcans and Spock had never remarked it until coming to Earth. Very few humans – even normally fit cadets – could do this so swiftly.

"Where – and who – is 'he', Ms. Kalomi?"

"Just call me Leila," she said, hurrying him with more gestures to follow her.

Following her was a pleasure. Spock, still new here, had a bit of an awakening. Her urgency, her stride, her beautiful form, filled him with curiosity of a kind unusual to him.

Eighty point three meters from the gate of the meditation garden Leila fell on her knees beside a large scruffy orange … buff … auburn … feline. He recognized the cat; he'd seen him at Commander Pike's home and knew this was the Academy "mascot," Captain Sparrow. Spock knelt opposite Leila, the distressed cat between them. He lay with eyes closed, sleeping perhaps, sides heaving with every breath.

"I'm a botanist, so I'm not exactly expert with animals. But you know many fields of biology, don't you Mr. Spock?"

Spock nodded and checked the femoral artery for a pulse, and found it racing. He lowered his nose to the cat's: soft, jerking, wheezy puffs of air. "Pulse is rapid and he is breathing with great difficulty."

Leila pointed – the cat's auburn-and-white tail had a 90-degree angle 1.5 cm from the tip. Broken, most likely. As were, most likely, several ribs.

"He's purring," Leila said, surprised.

"This is sometimes a sign of great pain," Spock said softly. "Not only does it comfort them; research has shown that the low-end frequency of the purr aids in self-healing."

Spock visually examined the cat's limbs, then gently grasping his patient's head, moved the cat's upper lip with a fingertip to check the color of the gums – they appeared somewhat pale, a possible indication of internal bleeding or shock – there was a loud rasping scream of rage, "NGAAAAiiiiiiiiAOU!" and the Captain, having come to consciousness with a strange hand restraining his head, kicked off hard with his back feet to spring away in panic, making several deep scratches in Spock's inside wrist. The wound, ripped into his flesh, began cleansing itself by bleeding.

Leila quickly lunged and tried to grab the cat by the nape of his neck, but was not swift enough; Sparrow's instincts were acute and his body far too muscular, and he got away in three bounds, to stand – arched in pain, wheezing and puffed with outrage – glaring at them. Spock, in particular.

Still seated on the grass, Spock raised his injured wrist above his chest to slow the bleeding. He fixed his soft gaze on the cat's face, something a human could not do without further upsetting the creature. "I am attempting to help you, Captain Sparrow." He looked down at the ground where the Academy mascot had lain, then looked into the cat's eyes, and put a hand to his own ribs as if to show he understood the Captain, who was growling, a rumble from the bottom of his throat. "Your tail appears broken and your ribs are either broken or badly bruised. Please allow us to escort you to Medical."

The growl reduced in volume, but the glare remained.

Leila did not move a muscle. She watched the rapport building between the Vulcan and the cat, and marveled. She remembered you weren't supposed to stare at a cat if it was feeling frightened or angry, but the Vulcan was looking into Sparrow's eyes and the Captain was _calming down_. She kept her eyes on Spock; his wrist was bleeding very rapidly, emerald drops falling to the grass and nearly blending in.

"As you can see, Sparrow, I must myself seek medical attention. Do you wish to walk with us, or be carried? We can put you in a sling. I am certain your ribs are painful to you."

Warily, the cat watched as Spock rose, stripped off his Formfit shirt and t-shirt, and bound his bloody wrist with the t-shirt; the material was black and absorbent. "We will use my outer shirt for Sparrow's sling."

Leila was staring at him and shook herself to attend to his words. "A sling … yes. Er, Spock, I think we need to hurry," she said, sounding distracted. _Have to keep my eyes off Spock's bare torso – action now – artistic appreciation later._ She was concerned about Spock's wrist wound; blood was already soaking through the t-shirt.

She snatched the long-sleeved shirt from Spock, saying, "If we flank him I can scruff the nape of his neck and we can put him in the sling ..."

"It's not—" Spock started to say, but Leila moved too quickly.

Sparrow dashed.

_Jaysis!_ She thought as she ran after the cat._ Trying to catch the Captain like that was stupid – look at him running with all that pain, poor thing – got to keep him in sight, don't want him to disappear._ But her instinct to help and the … lovely distraction of Spock's anatomy had made her act before a making a quick assessment as she had been trained to do. _Spock will think I'm an eejit – a year ahead of him and I ignore my emergency training like a fool. If I can just catch up to Sparrow and drop this shirt over him …_

Leila ran after him but Spock was faster, running barefoot through the grass, sending thoughts ahead: _We are not going to hurt you. We wish to help you._ He visualized the after-effects of veterinary care, ribs without pain, easy breathing, peace, normal cat activity; Sparrow might understand even in his attempt to avoid pursuit. Spock omitted any visions of the _process_ of veterinary care, these generally were of no comfort to cats.

Flying across the grass, his eyes on the fleeing feline, Spock hardly knew what happened, it registered only seconds later. All he knew was that his foot was suddenly numb and he was nearly airborne –

"NUGHHHH," said Spock.

~/\~

Spock was overtaking Leila in the cat chase. She almost couldn't keep from glancing back at him. She'd only known him as the brilliant, aloof Vulcan she'd spotted in Interspecies Ethics Lectures; the high-necked tailored cadet uniform suited his lean figure and strict posture very well, but she hadn't dwelt on his physical characteristics so much. But _now_ – . _Oh my soul … brilliant __and__ beautiful._

He was tall, lean, built like a swimmer, with long, supple muscles. His legs were _long_, his strides ate up distance, and as he ran swiftly, gracefully, posture positively straight, she fantasized for a moment that he was running to her. Bare-chested, with a scattering of chest hair arrowing down to his waistband, it was as if he'd suddenly snapped into focus.

Not surprisingly, he quickly passed her and the view from the rear was equally … _rewarding_, actually … and he was catching up to Sparrow when …

His right foot encountered an obstacle; his left foot hit the ground, pitching the top of his body ahead and down; his right foot came slightly up behind him, adding velocity, and he fell straight out onto the grass. "Planted a full-facer", as her mam would say. It was the most remarkable fall Leila had ever seen outside of a holo. It was funny and awful all at once. She caught up to him in a second and fell to her knees beside him.

"Cadet Spock … _Spock_, are you all right?" she shouted.

He tilted his head up just enough so his face was out of the grass; his nose was scraped raw, then his head lay back, left cheek to the ground, eyes going rapidly out of focus ... _They really are a beautiful brown,_ she thought irrelevantly.

And he had one clear thought _… Her words have a decided lilt … an Irish accent, perhaps …._

… When his vision focused, he saw her leaning over him, and her blue eyes were wide with concern.

He saw the cat, less than a meter behind Leila, watching curiously, still in obvious pain. _Mother would say, "That makes two of us" … No. No pain … there is no pain … pain is a thing of the mind – _

"I have to bandage your foot, it's very badly hurt," Leila said, ripping off the bottom of her t-shirt (a soft, curvy, muscular midriff got Spock's attention as she did so) and loosely winding the material around his toes and transverse arch to absorb blood and immobilize his broken bones. While she bent to her task, her blonde hair shimmered in the sun. It had the most fascinating reddish tones.

_What did Mother teach me to say to Humans in response to help …?_ "'Hankyou," he murmured, words nearly unintelligible.

"I contacted Medical," she was saying. "They're beaming us over; you can't walk there."

"… vuhhhr." 'Very well,' he was about to say, although he was the junior of the two …

~/\~

"Cadet Spock, are you conscious?" said an intense African-inflected voice. Spock recognized it. Months ago he had been beaten rather badly by some toughs in the city, and this doctor had cared for him almost like a Vulcan Healer. "You passed out before you could go into a healing trance."

"Doctor M'Benga … yes." A pause. "The Captain …" he whispered. "Out of danger?"

"Indeed, Mr Spock, he submitted to having his ribs knitted with our bone-plaser. His tail has been damaged for a while, unfortunately."

"I heard that Cadet Gonzales shut the Captain's tail in a door a few months ago," said Leila softly. "Poor Sparrow, going about with a broken tail all this time. At least Gonzo is gone now. "

"That section of a cat's tail is made of cartilage, so it wasn't broken, actually. He'll have a permanent kink there." M'Benga turned to Spock. "Sparrow is in better shape than you are, though, young man."

"'m I …?"

"We sealed your radial artery – it had got rather a nasty rip. Your wrist will look a bit dodgy for a while – a chunk of skin went missing, so I sealed it with growth aid suture. You had a compound fracture of the distal and middle phalanges of your right great toe; that'll be painful for a while in spite of my bone knitter and sutureseal. No thanks to the Captain's taking a piece out of you, and your 200-meter dash, you've lost a fair bit of blood. We're replicating some blood now, so until we're done transfusing you, I need for you to induce a light healing trance, if you're able."

"'crs…"

"Is he going to be all right?" said that voice with the lovely Irish inflection. _Leila. A fitting name … such a way of speaking … quite – _

He closed his eyes, inwardly beginning the process, one taught to him from childhood, Vulcan self-preservation, a state of bodily conservation so deep as to look like a coma.

~/\~

A WHACK! on his face brought Spock to the beginnings of consciousness. WHACK! Closer. WHACK! Closer still … WHACK! Spock's right hand darted out and weakly gripped the healer's wrist. Blearily his eyes met M'Benga's, then slid to the alarmed face of Leila Kalomi.

Dr M'Benga spoke: "Believe it or not, Cadet Kalomi, this is how Vulcans emerge from a healing trance."

"Shouldn't he still …?"

"The worst of his injuries are healing, so what he needs now is simply bed rest, good nutrition, and a day or two away from cadet activities." M'Benga focused on Spock and said, "Now listen to me, Cadet Spock, and none of your stubbornness. Bed rest, no weight on the toe, 48 hours, no less. No walking except to the head. Two weeks' restriction to classes only, no duty hours, no extracurricular activity, _no running_. Mild exercise only – floor stretches and the like. Go easy on that great toe for the next three weeks. Do I have your word that you will comply, Cadet, or do I need to confine you here?"

"I will heal faster than that, Doctor."

M'Benga nodded, smiling a little. "When your toe feels better come back for a follow-up examination. But not sooner than ten days from now."

Spock said, "I will comply."

"You might like to know, Spock," said Leila, "that I talked to the Grounds Maintenance staff. The automated lawn sprinkler system is scheduled for upgrade to a system with retractable heads – no more tripping hazards in the grass, except when they are operating. Meanwhile they'll be flagged."

M'Benga's eyes twinkled. "Take good care of him, Ms Kalomi. He's a good and worthy young man."

She looked as though she were going to say something and thought better of it, then, after the doctor left, came over to Spock, gently resting a hand on his shoulder. "Oh, my … this was all a bit frightening. But I wanted to tell you something wonderful – before Medical beamed us out, Captain Sparrow came to stand right beside you, and when he arrived with us, he was calm as anything."

Spock nodded and closed his eyes. "That is fortunate."

~/\~

When he woke again, Captain Sparrow was neatly curled on the bed by his side, purring loudly. And Leila Kalomi sat in a chair to the other side of the bed, intensely studying her Padd.

She felt him looking at her and met his eyes. She reached out and squeezed his hand lightly, but it was enough. A mental spark leapt between them as their hands met. "I'm so glad we got here in time." Her voice was calm, but her smile a bit tremulous.

"That makes two of us," Spock murmured. He saw her grin as his eyes drifted closed.

_A very strange afternoon_, he was thinking as sleep took him. _Yet strangely rewarding._

A/N: the Navy's terms fourth/class and third/class are traditionally written (in the US at least) with a slant bar.

What did you think? Did you enjoy it? Want to see more of Spock and Leila? Your comments are welcome and very much appreciated.


End file.
